Author: Doreen Miller

We were in Ecuador at the time of the March equinox, one of the two days each year when the sun is directly over the equator. Tour guides repeatedly noted that on that day at noon on the equator, we cast no shadows. How intriguing to cast no shadow in broad daylight!

When you hear the word “shadow,” what comes to mind? How do you feel? Warm and fuzzy? Safe? Afraid? Cautious? What about when you consider your own shadow? Affectionate? Ashamed? Amused?

Poet Robert Louis Stephenson evidently felt whimsical, playful, curious, and a bit conflicted  about his own shadow. In the first two verses of his poem, “My Shadow,” he writes:

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me, 
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
And to see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow— 
Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,
And he sometimes gets so little that there’s none of him at all.

He hasn’t got a notion of how children ought to play, 
And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
He stays so close beside me, he’s a coward you can see;
I’d think shame to stick to nurse as that shadow sticks to me!

On one hand, shadows are a blessing. In the heat of the day, we find shade and relief in shadows. The psalmists speak with joy of “hiding” (Ps 17:8) and “abiding” (Ps 91:1) in God’s shadow. Scripture describes the Law (Heb 10:1), religious festivals, and the Sabbath as shadows of the good things to come in Christ (Col 2:16-17). In other words, we can appreciate and benefit from these shadows of the Real and the Good, but we do not want to mistake them for Jesus, who provides all good things and fulfills them.

Even my own spiritual shadow can become a blessing. When I look at my shadow, I see a replica of my real shape, the true “me,” the new creation I am in Christ (2 Coe 5:17). Seeing my shadow (the broken, unhealed or sinful “form” I still sometimes take) can help me understand the “real” me, the way God designed me and is helping me become more fully. Seeing my shadow can actually be helpful in directing my prayer.

For example, when a Christ-centered mother struggles with an impatient, critical attitude toward her son, what might examining her shadow (brokenness, sin, temptation) reveal? Perhaps the mother is very afraid her son will fail in life. So what the mother really needs is to stay in touch with her love for her son and turn her fear over to God. Or perhaps the mother is afraid of failing in her role as parent and what she really needs is to turn to God for wisdom and strength in parenting. Or perhaps the mother is afraid of what others might think and what she really needs is to turn to Christ’s unconditional love to find her unchanging value.

When I look at my own shadows, what do I learn? When I see how much agitation and anxiety I feel in the midst of conflict, I see how Christ formed me to work for unity and kindness. When I see how depressed I get when over-busy and over-stressed, I see how God formed me to enjoy Sabbath and to receive His rest. When I see how sad and hopeless I feel for those who have never experienced intimacy with Jesus, I feel Christ in me longing for them to know him. I realize I need not despair because God loves them even more than I do. When I see how prone I am to feel shame and self-condemnation when I do not perform perfectly, I am reminded to find my real value in the perfect, unconditional love of God for me and to rest in the arms of my loving Father/Shepherd/Friend/Savior/Lord.

What are your shadows—your besetting sins, temptations, or unhealed woundings? What do these dark places tell you about the way God made you, where God wants to heal and transform you, and what to pray? 

For God, “darkness is as light” (Psalm 139:12). Even our fears, temptations, suffering, and sin become opportunities for God to transform us. Into what shadows do you want to invite God today?

Yes, we cast no shadow on the equator twice a year. But the only way to cast no shadow of sin or brokenness here and now is to surrender fully to the living Light of the Spirit of Christ within us. With the Light of the World within us, shadows are no more. We shine.

Enough is enough. Good enough. Leave well enough alone. Had enough yet? Fair enough! Enough to make your hair curl. 

Oddly enough…

A little over a decade ago, a few months after our youngest daughter left for college, I was circling in a depressed funk. Despite doctoring a day or two a week, I had found real joy in mothering. Our four wonderful daughters were now independent adults living in other states. The fun, fulfilling years I had spent as a church youth advisor had just ended too. Who was I now? At fifty, I felt lost, useless, the most fulfilling part of my life’s work done. What should I be doing for God now?

One Sunday morning in early spring, I settled down into the smooth wooden comfort of our usual pew. As prelude music played, I leaned over to greet Char. Though we sat at opposite ends of the same long bench every Sunday, Char was a fellow worshiper whom I barely knew. However, she was always friendly and smiled during our weekly, “Hello. How are you?” 

This day, Char surprised me. 

“Hello. How are you?” I greeted as usual.

“Doreen,” Char responded a bit hesitantly, “this week as I was praying, God told me to tell you something. I don’t have any idea what it means.”

Ears perked and body tensed in anticipation, I waited. This was completely out of the ordinary for quiet Char and our established church routine. A prophetic word?! For me?! No one ever had a prophetic word for me. Certainly not in our church, and certainly not Char, who barely knew me (and who otherwise seemed so sensible!).

“God said to tell you, ‘Enough already.’ That’s all. I don’t know what it means,” she said, almost apologetically.

I did. I knew what it meant. Immediately the tears began. And they continued gently, persistently all through the worship service that followed. 

I heard “Enough already” on two levels, God speaking. “Enough already with the circling around in self-pity!” was a gentle but clear call to reorient towards God.

But even louder was “You have done enough already. You do not have to do anything more. I am pleased with you already. No worries. You have done enough already.” In this “enough already,” I heard permission and power to explore—To what new ways of loving God and others might I be invited? What might be icing on the already tasty, fully-baked “cake” of my life? I felt freed from striving to make my life sufficient to earn God’s approval of me. I already had God’s approval.

This “enough already” from God was the seed that grew into my attending seminary and then training to be a spiritual director. I felt loosed by God to follow paths with Him that gave me great delight—learning and studying the Bible, theology, spiritual formation, and spiritual direction. Eventually, I quit my career in medicine entirely to follow Christ’s way of asking questions and listening. The yoke of responsibility for using all that medical expertise was removed from my shoulders. I could complete the work for which God made me in a new and different way.

Perhaps Jesus knew he had “done enough already” those many times he left the needy, noisy masses to pray in silence and solitude (Lk 5:16). And perhaps Jesus also heard his Father say, “You have done enough already,” just before he turned his face toward Jerusalem for the last time (Lk 9:51). How could he walk toward death on the cross (Lk 18:31-32) when so many despairing people had not yet heard the good news of the Kingdom of God? How could he who embodied compassion in every healing touch ever choose to stop making people whole?

Oppression, poverty, confusion, hopelessness, disease, disability, and demons still abounded. Yet Jesus knew that the teaching and healing part of his call on earth was completed; he had done “enough already” in these particular ways. So, he walked the path toward crucifixion to complete in a new and different way the work for which he had come. And finally, right before breathing his last, Jesus himself proclaimed “enough already”—“It is finished” (Jn 19:30).

Over the years, God’s “enough already” message has gained many meanings for me. But for now, enough said.

What might “enough already” mean if God said these words to you?

Our daughter is expecting. She is large with child, “all baby,” obviously waiting for something to happen. The clothes, diapers, and crib are ready, expecting to be used. The older siblings are ready, expecting to hold this wee one who has made them “Big Brother” and “Big Sister.” We are ready, expecting a successful labor and delivery, a healthy baby, a new child and grandchild to bring us great joy.

Expectations are powerful. God uses promises, but the enemy so often uses expectations. We expect so much—trains and buses to arrive on time, cars and trucks to stay in lane, children and adults to stay in line.

We expect to live long, satisfying lives. We expect God and/or medicine to heal us. We expect to be happy. We expect our parents, spouses, friends, siblings, grown children, and pastors to meet our needs. 

We expect life to be fair, at least to us. We expect not to feel lonely, not to suffer long, not to be broken or scarred irreparably. We expect to overcome our circumstances, to pull ourselves up by our bootstraps, to live independently. We expect to succeed more than we fail, if we just try hard enough. We expect a return on our investments. We expect God to answer our prayers in a way we can see that makes sense to us. We expect God to fulfill His promises in a certain way and in a certain time.

Yet we have a very surprising God. In essence and character, God is constant, unchanging, dependable, and trustworthy. He always keeps His promises. But His ways, especially His Why’s (“Why did You do that, God?”) and His How’s (“How will You do that, God?”), are inexplicable and unexpected. God is beyond our understanding and beyond our ability to predict or control. 

Indeed, one of the few things we can predict about our triune God is that He is so very unexpected. Who would expect God to pursue fallen humanity relentlessly with His love, down the meandering, often backtracking, disappointing halls of history? Who would expect God to choose for Himself a small, stubborn group of nomadic shepherds and bricklaying serfs when He could have chosen the wealthy, learned, and successful Incas, Egyptians, Chinese, Greeks, Romans, or Americans? Who would expect God to keep His covenant promises when we, the weaker party, did not and do not and will not? Who would expect God to value slaves, women, orphans, widows, aliens, and the poor? Who would expect God to tell us to love our enemies and pray for our persecutors, like Jesus did?

Who would expect God to become a defenseless, droppable, discardable, hungry baby? Who would expect God voluntarily to humble Himself, to give up His power, to take the form of a servant in order to die a death of humiliation on a cross (Phil 2:6-8), to be limited in human flesh like us? Who would expect God to be like us—to age, to need to grow in wisdom, to hunger and thirst, to be so tired he naps in a wildly rocking boat, to dread the future so much he sweats blood?

God specializes in the unexpected. He specializes in silences that teach us, in wilderness experiences that shape us, and in long centuries of waiting for promises to be fulfilled at just the right time, in the best possible unexpected way. He specializes in babies born to unlikely women—the barren (Sarah, Rebekah, Rachel, Hannah, and Elizabeth), the widowed foreigner (Ruth) and the unmarried, shamed young virgin (Mary). 

Mary showed me how to respond to the unexpected—with trust in God’s goodness, love, power and sovereignty. So I am approaching the delivery of our next grandchild holding my expectations lightly and choosing to trust God regardless of results. I want to shift my focus from unfulfilled expectations to gratitude for what I have.

What expectations of You, surprising God, would You like me to let go? What expectations of myself? Of others? Of the world? Change my expectations to rest in Your promises. Open my eyes to see Your presence, particularly where, when and how I least expect.

 

When the miracle of God’s incarnational love becomes too familiar to shine brightly, I remember a story my dad used to tell about the boy who loved a chicken…

Once upon a time, a boy loved a chicken. Nothing was particularly special about this chicken except that she was so extraordinarily loved. She was speckled, brown, average in every way. Unfortunately, as chickens go, she was also average in intelligence, which is not saying much.

In loving his chicken, the boy had a problem, a very serious problem indeed. Instead of eating grain and worms and fat, juicy grubs, his dear chicken ate only stones. Day by day, his little chicken was growing thinner. Though the stones filled and satisfied her for a while, they were gradually killing her. The boy’s beloved chicken was starving to death, stone by stone.

The boy did all he could to fix this frightening situation. First, he tried talking to her. He scolded her, pleaded with her, and told her how much he loved her. He pleaded and pleaded, scolded and scolded, talked and talked. But, being a chicken and not a human, she understood nothing. In fact, she barely noticed the white noise of his love as she busily continued eating stones. 

So the boy developed a plan. He put his precious fowl in a comfy, large, safe pen. After carefully removing all the rocks and stones, he scattered corn, wheat, worms, and fat, juicy grubs all over the ground. The boy spent quite a lot of time, effort, and his entire allowance on strong fencing and the best quality food. “Now,” he thought, “Now my chicken will eat and grow strong.”

But the foolishness of the boy’s little chicken was beyond understanding. She ignored the grain, worms, and fat, juicy grubs that would have saved her life. Instead, she used up her energy digging in the dirt. After much scratching of the smooth soil, she was able eventually to unearth a few small rocks, which she devoured hungrily once again.

By now the boy was very distressed. What else could he do? The chicken he loved was wasting away. He thought and thought and came up with another plan. His little hen just didn’t know what she needed. She was used to rocks and didn’t realize they were killing her. He would put other, well-fed chickens in the pen with his little hen. Hopefully, as his poor starving chicken watched them eat the good, healthy food, she would be inspired to follow their example.

So, the little boy put fat, healthy chickens into the pen with his beloved little hen. He tossed in abundant quantities of barley, oats, corn, green leaves, worms, and fat, juicy grubs. The chickens sent by the boy ate the good food happily. They grew plump and sleek, but the boy’s own chicken ignored the others completely. She went her own way, scratching in the dirt, eating stones, slowly starving.

By now, the boy was desperate. His heart was breaking. If he didn’t get through to his precious chicken soon, she would surely die. What else could he do? She wouldn’t listen to him. She didn’t understand. She had no idea how much he loved her. Then he had an idea. He would become a chicken so he could speak her language and persuade her to eat healthy foods! 

And the little boy did just that. Zip! Zap! The little boy became a chicken, a plain black rooster about the same size as his little hen. Cautiously, slowly, the little boy (who was now a chicken) scratched the ground and sidled his way over to his hen. 

“Hey, there,”he greeted her kindly. “Lovely day. [Scratch, scratch] Nice pen. [Sidle, sidle] What are you doing?”

“Oh!”she responded cautiously. “Oh, hello! I’m eating, always eating. [Swallow, swallow] Hungry, so hungry. Are you new here? [Scratch, scratch] Here, have a big, fat rock.” (The little boy’s chicken may have had her issues, but she was not selfish.)

“A rock?”asked the little boy (who was now a chicken). “Oh, no, thank you. Do you eat rocks? [Scratch, scratch] You know, rocks will kill you eventually…They are not what we’re made for.” 

As he talked, the little boy paused occasionally to peck and swallow corn kernels, leaves, and fat, juicy grubs (which was a bit disgusting since they were the only insects the little boy had ever eaten on purpose). “Here, try one of these. They’re full of vitamins. [Swallow, swallow, gulp] Quite tasty!”

Doubtful, puzzled, yet unexpectedly hopeful, the little hen watched him for a long while. This little black rooster who had come out of nowhere had no beauty to commend him, but he seemed healthy and strong. He wasn’t pushy or condescending, and he had a wise, kind, patient way about him. As she watched him, her courage grew. Perhaps she could eat just one of those wiggly things. She was awfully hungry. No matter how many rocks she ate, she always seemed to want more. Tentatively, the little hen took a tiny peck at a nearby grub.

DELICIOUS! Melt in your beak! Like nothing else she had ever tasted! A virtual explosion of energy and life coursed through her starving body.  How unexpected! What a surprise! She gobbled up another grub, and another, then some corn, leaves, wheat and barley. In fact, the little hen ate all that day, all the next day, and the next. Gradually she grew strong and healthy. As she ate, she wondered at times where the small black rooster had gone. But she was just a chicken, with very little understanding. She had gone from death to life and would never be the same.

And the little boy was very, very happy.

I am not an evergreen tree. Definitely not. Neither actually nor metaphorically.  

I love evergreen trees, in particular evergreen conifers. Tall and stately, they smell good, live long, and give shape to majestic winter scenes. Sporting a conical shape and waxy-coated, narrow leaves photosynthesizing slowly but surely all year round, they survive tough winter conditions. Walking on their fallen needles, my tread is soft, quiet, springy, and clean.   Conifers grow together well and seem much more likely to share space without shoving, crowding or poking each other. Evergreens behave. Even their seeds are tidy, tucked away from sight, spirally arranged in orderly, mathematically elegant Fibonacci number ratios.

On my walk today, I sensed God telling me I am more like a broad-leafed deciduous tree. Though of course He was right, at first I was disappointed. I am intense, active, spreading, always changing. My emotions and thoughts catch the wind like broad leaves, sometimes blowing about and scattering, often creating crackling untidiness underfoot. My life is lived in seasons, with great variability in fruitfulness and beauty, but rooted in one surety—before long, I will change once again. 

Yet, in His tender kindness, God also showed me ways He formed me that He pronounces  “good” along with the rest of Creation. Unlike conifers, I bear fruit, sometimes sweet, sometimes sticky and messy, but ripe with potential to feed others. I don’t hold tightly to my leaves but am willing to let them drop and disperse. Broad leaves may just photosynthesize seasonally, but quickly and efficiently.

Broadleaf deciduous trees live in tune to the seasons. In spring, they are brilliant green and unfurling with hope. In summer, they offer abundant shade and respond readily to the slightest whisper of Wind. In autumn, as their productive green chlorophyll breaks down, red and yellow pigments which had always been present become unexpectedly visible. And finally, in winter, the now naked tree is dormant, resting and readying for whatever God brings next.

I still want to be tall and majestic, with less rapid change, more quiet gentleness, less drive to productivity, more unassuming ability to withstand raw winter blasts. But overall, I just want to be more deeply rooted in the reality of our triune God, more quick to absorb all He offers—whether sunlight, rain, the expired breath of humanity, or earth’s nutrients. 

As I age, I become increasingly grateful the Body of Christ boasts such variability and beauty. The human forest which springs from the life Jesus laid down is alive and lovely with all kinds of trees, bushes, flowers and plants, and we are rooted together. I am increasingly awed to discover myself a unique and valued part of what God is up to in this world. And, though our daughters don’t like to hear the words spoken aloud, I am ready (whenever God wills) to fall to the ground, donating all of who I was in this earthly body and opening up space in the canopy for others to take my place.

 

I hide. I hide who I am. I hide what I think. I hide what I feel. I hide my strengths, lest they threaten others or make them feel inadequate. I hide my weaknesses, lest they repulse others or give them weapons against me. I hide from others. I hide from myself. I hide from God.

Where did all this hiding begin? In one way, my hiding began in childhood. I was afraid of criticism and anger. I was afraid of being bad. I was afraid of being wrong. I was afraid of not pleasing my parents and not pleasing God. I was afraid of not being enough. 

How did I hide? I stopped trying to share my thoughts and feelings lest I be wrong or misunderstood. Hiding my thoughts and feelings, I disappeared. When tired, I disappeared into books and TV shows. When energetic, I disappeared into constant activity and hard work, physical and intellectual. Occasionally I showed glimpses of myself to friends, but friends safe and constant enough to not harm me were rare.

Hiding, I lived at half mast. I lived furled, folded over. Trying to avoid failure and rejection, I lived in retreat, afraid to move forward, afraid to risk. I lived covered, neither fully seeing nor fully seen.

Where did all this hiding begin? In one way, my hiding began in adulthood. I was afraid I was failing—failing as a wife, as a friend, as a parent. I was afraid of losing—losing my reputation, losing love, losing myself. I was afraid of both not being enough and being too much.

Hiding, I stayed where I knew I could succeed. Hiding, I took care of people instead of letting them care for me. Hiding, I wanted love and acceptance, not respect. I hid my needs and denied my desires, even from myself. Hiding, I tried to please God.

Where did all this hiding begin? In one way, my hiding began in Genesis. “Where are you?” God asks, though He sees all things, even me. “Why are you hiding? What have you done? Why are you not walking and talking with Me in the cool of the evening in our beautiful Garden?”

Like the Good Shepherd searching high and low for one lost sheep, God seeks me, calls for me, waits for me to respond to His voice. Yet, I hide from the One who wants to save me. 

Afraid I am not enough for the God who lived and died for me. Afraid He will ask too much of me. 

Afraid I am too much for the God who continues to create me. Afraid I will go ahead of Him, try to control Him, not submit to His sovereignty and wisdom in all things.

Afraid I am too feminine, too needy, too unsure and therefore not valuable. Not enough. 

Afraid I am too masculine, with too many talents and too much intensity, and therefore twisted. Not reflecting His order and beauty.

What do I need from You, God, to stop hiding? What do I need to know—about me, about You? Who more do You have to BE? What more could You give than what you have already given? Help me, God!

Help me to see what I already hold and be thankful. Help me to see who I already am and be thankful. Help me to look at You and see you and be thankful. Help me to see with Your eyes and Your mind and Your heart. Help me to celebrate You.

Help me to come out of hiding.