145: Welcome What Bothers You

I was seven or eight, and sobbing in my childhood kitchen. I’d just learned that a small sweetgum tree in our front yard would be removed. And I could not stand the thought. It was a tree my parents planted when I was a baby, a tree I’d always considered “mine.” It didn’t seem fair to remove it; after all, it still had so much growing to do, just like me. In a way, that tree and me, we were growing up together. So, I was upset; it was not well with my soul; and that day, it became my mission to let everyone know how I felt.

With tears continuing to stream down my face, I marched right through our house and out the front door. I went and sat down by my little tree, heartache and righteous indignation on full display. I  cared about this tree and pledged to protect it. I would not to leave that spot until I knew my tree would remain unharmed.

It turns out, though, the tree was already harmed; it was sick. My parents discovered its disease and the disease was contagious, threatening to infect not only my little sweetgum, but all the trees nearby—the big, grand sycamore, the large, expansive oaks, the delicate, spindly crepe myrtles, and the tall, beautiful pines. In the end, removing it was the right thing to do, even if my little heart couldn’t see it that way at the time. I sat there for what felt like forever, pleading for my beloved little tree.

I share that experience with you because it stands out to me as one of the very first times I remember being bothered by something—bothered in a way that was heavier than a small annoyance, more pronounced than a pet peeve.

It was one of the very first times, but certainly not the last time. Being bothered—feeling unsettled, irritated, aggravated—is part of the human experience. And, if you’re like me, it’s a part of the human experience we tend to avoid, if at all possible. It’s often easier to look away, stuff it down, work around. And yet, I’m learning how important our willingness is to lean toward the discomfort, to move through the disturbance, to pay attention to what bothers us. Because even that is a space in which God can meet us; truly, even what bothers us can be holy ground.

In our last episode, remind{h}er 144, I read two versions of the same story; one from Mark and the other from Matthew. It’s the story of Jesus and the Syrophoenician or Canaanite woman. And it is a story that bothers me. At least, at first glance. There are a few different reasons for this, and I’ll say more words about it all in our next episode.

Truly there are so many layers here; there’s so much we could unpack within this story. For now, though, I can’t help but notice that the woman in the story is clearly, deeply, bothered. Bothered beyond herself, bothered on behalf of her daughter. Her daughter is unwell, filled with an unclean spirit. So, when the woman hears Jesus is in town, she does everything she can to find him. And when she does, it seems she is not exactly met with a warm welcome. Still, she persists. She just can’t seem to walk away.

She continues to lean in. Continues to plead and wrestle. Continues to interact with Jesus. It’s as if she knows in her bones who Jesus is and what Jesus can do. Even with scraps. Even with crumbs.

As author and artist Jan Richardson puts it in her poem, Stubborn Blessing:

Don’t tell me no.
I have seen you
feed the thousands,
seen miracles spill
from your hands
like water, like wine,
seen you with circles
and circles of crowds
pressed around you
and not one soul
turned away.

Don’t start with me.

I am saying
you can close the door
but I will keep knocking.
You can go silent
but I will keep shouting.
You can tighten the circle
but I will trace a bigger one
around you,
around the life of my child
who will tell you
no one surpasses a mother
for stubbornness.

I am saying
I know what you
can do with crumbs
and I am claiming mine,
every morsel and scrap
you have up your sleeve.
Unclench your hand,
your heart.
Let the scraps fall
like manna,
like mercy
for the life
of my child,
the life of
the world.

Don’t you tell me no.

Some people are so bothered they quit; and as we see with this woman, some people are so bothered, they persist.

This isn’t about manipulation, temper tantrums or being a jerk in an effort to get our way; we also see a reverence and a humility within this woman that can’t be ignored.

It is about learning to recognize God-Within-Us, even if our experience is an unpleasant one. I’m learning when we are unsettled, when something isn’t sitting right within us, God is not absent, but is often moving. In the peace and in the discomfort. In the joy and in the anger. In the inner calm and in the inner chaos. We can trust God to meet us when it is well with our souls, and when it’s not.

Basically, I’m learning it’s okay to feel bothered. And often, if we’ll consider and explore what bothers us, we might just find God nudging, leading, guiding us toward God’s heart and a greater kingdom purpose. As we continue to become the people God calls and invites us to be, what bothers us could be key.

It’s interesting to note that a couple chapters earlier in the gospel of Matthew, Jesus compares the Kingdom of God to a pearl. And it’s quite curious to remember how a pearl is formed. It begins when an oyster is bothered. When an irritant, like a bit of dirt or sand, shows up in the shell, the oyster doesn’t ignore it, but deals with it, does something about it, begins the persistent work of smoothing it over. And over time, through that persistence, that dirt is transformed; something beautiful, valuable, worthwhile takes shape.

So, what bothers you? What upsets you or troubles you? What is not sitting right within you? And what might God be up to?

Today, remember to welcome what bothers you. May we trust God to meet us there, to move within and through us, as we continue to become the people God calls and invites us to be.