Growing Faith and a Winding Path

     It’s funny how much my work in film has affected my way of thinking. The more stories that I write, the more I see myself as a character in a bigger story.

     I first had such a thought years ago — in middle school, I think.

     Heroes are still unsure and afraid about their futures, but they go through trial after trial and face the enemy regardless. Sometimes they place their trust in “destiny” or “fate” or “luck,” or some other cosmic force overseeing all — and they ultimately survive, because good always conquers evil. And huzzah for them.

     But if you think about it, that all-powerful force manipulating their lives is actually just the author. The person writing the story is the one who can control the circumstances of the characters, rearranging events and otherwise-uncontrollable-factors all for the sake of a good yarn. Only the writer (and his eventual audience) understands the themes and the symbolism that are interwoven with the lives of the protagonists. Our heroes often find out later (or sometimes never) what would have happened if they had just been three seconds slower or faster, if they hadn’t bent down to tie their shoe at that time, if they hadn’t tripped into the pond and gone searching for a cleaner on that day. We know, but they may not, that one small insignificant moment ultimately directed the entire course of their future.

     As I thought this through in the midst of my adolescence, I started to compare my new metaphor with what I had learned (and was still learning) about what God is like. The more I squinted at the two concepts, the more they blended into one. And the more I’ve embrace the idea, the more true it has become within my life.

     “God is not hurried along in the Time-stream of this universe any more than an author hurried along in the imaginary time of his own novel. He has infinite attention to spare for each one of us.” - C.S. Lewis

     There is of course one central difference between God and any human author: His motive for ‘writing.’ I may manipulate the circumstances in a tale for all sorts of reasons — to speed up the plot, to create tension and excitement, to keep an audience guessing. But that’s not what God is up to. He doesn’t create conflict, but he does manipulate it for the eventual triumph of good over evil. He doesn’t keep people from facing difficult or even deadly obstacles, but he uses their struggles to impact the lives of other people in ways that can’t be measured by man. 

     Personally, I can hardly wait for the day when everyone in Heaven gets to sit down and watch the Ultimate Movie about the world, where God shows us how the tiniest circumstances had major effects on the direction of humankind; where we’ll gasp at the parallels between the lives of people that may have never interacted; where we’ll shake our heads in awe at how close we came to entirely different fates. It will be the most extensive, interwoven, complicated plot ever to exist, but we won’t lose track of it for a millisecond.

     Okay, so that day may not exist according to any theologically-sound doctrine, but you get the idea. It’s a bit related to my metaphor earlier this year, about life being a puzzle/patchwork quilt.

     But why am I telling you all of this? Why must you muddle through all of Rica’s nerdy spiritual musings in order to hear what she’s actually up to?

     Because hearing what’s happened to me may be somewhat interesting, but it’s important to me that you also hear how I have learned to react to my circumstances. In a few short years I have gone from a teenager with an uncertain future to a young adult charging full speed ahead with no compass or fuel other than (despite how cheesy it may sound) faith in God.

     So what have I been doing?

     Quite a bit. I spent my first month in Atlanta with some precious family friends, functioning as the newfound daughter for the mother of the house (who raised four boys and was beyond delighted at the novel experience of having a fellow lady around the house). That gave me some time to acclimatize myself to the new city and the new job.

     I immediately took to Atlanta more than I expected. There are a lot of trees, fields, and landscaping arrangements that keep the city from feeling claustrophobic. It’s humid, yes, but most people keep their air-conditioning at deliciously-cold temperatures. Some people complain about the traffic, but I don’t usually mind it because I’ve just learned to give myself plenty of extra time; it’s not stressful if you’re not in a hurry. In fact, I’ve really enjoyed catching up on a lot of sermon podcasts and audiobooks whenever I’m on the road.

     (By the way, my two tips to Atlanta drivers:

     1. There is a pothole approximately every 100 yards on every street, so be prepared to try and maneuver around them while staying in a single lane.

     2. Keep to the right until absolutely necessary, because there may not be a left turn signal at the next light and you could get stuck behind one or two poor blokes who have to wait for the intersection to clear up.)

     After a month with my host-family, I finally got to move into the townhouse and begin living like an adult: cooking my own meals, collecting my own furniture, and — oh, yeah — paying bills. Fortunately, I was working as many extra hours as I could, and I was being handsomely reimbursed for the mileage that I was driving whenever the directors sent me to pick up anything.

     I really enjoyed my job, too. Though I was sometimes little more than an errand-runner, I know that a lot of the work that I did was highly useful and highly needed. The studio was cozy and the people were very nice. My daily schedule varied extensively, from sorting through old receipts to picking up equipment from shops to running packages to film sets. I got to spend a lot of time just soaking in wisdom from the professionals around me, and they were very encouraging.

     At the end of June, when the studio finished up the film they were working on, my time with them came to a close and they didn’t choose to keep me on for any future projects. I won’t pretend it wasn’t disappointing; being selected or rejected for a job always has an effect on someone’s self-esteem, and after all the hard work that I went through to get hired in my actual career field, I did feel let down at how quickly it was over.

     But the strange thing is, as I sat there thinking on everything that was going on around me, an odd peace started to creep into my thoughts. Because, somehow, I just knew that God wouldn’t bring me to Atlanta and set me up with a place to live so flawlessly only to have me turn around and pack up. I found out that my family had actually been praying that I might find a more solid, full-time job. And the more I prayed and applied to new positions, the more He proved to be faithful and attentive.

     Within mere hours of finishing my final work day, I received an email from a professional at CNN. She and I had been trying to connect since I had arrived in May, but our schedules kept us both tangled; and now she was finally available to meet — on a day and at a time that I would have otherwise been unavailable for if I was still working. That was an immediate encouragement, because I knew that even if it didn’t lead to a job, it was still God’s reminder to me that He was in control of the situation.

     That doesn’t mean I didn’t send out job applications, of course, but I knew that I didn’t have to mentally beat myself up for every hour that passed without any results. Furthermore, I hadn’t been frivolous with my earnings; I spent so little that I have enough to pay for at least two months of rent, if not three or more. I was already scheduled to do some dog-sitting for my host-family, starting on the 3rd. I had just received an invitation to spend the Fourth of July with a friend and her family. And after two months of working tirelessly, I actually had an open schedule to visit my family and see their new house.

     With plenty of businesses winding down in preparation for Independence Day, I decided that running around town during the week before the holiday wouldn’t be very productive. Instead, I sent out applications over the weekend (which I basically use as heralds to tell studios I’ll be coming by in a few days to ensure they got my resumé). Then I planned to head back to Kentucky for a quick vacation, just after the meeting at CNN, which was scheduled to be on Monday at noon.

     But we didn’t meet on Monday at noon.

     I got an email that morning, stating that due to a scheduling conflict, my contact at CNN had to postpone our meeting until the next day. I was a bit disappointed; after all, I wanted to see my family and their new house, and that visit was only going to be three days long in the first place… now, just two. But as I prayed and sat there, I wondered if God wanted me to have that extra day in Atlanta for a specific reason. After all, I had done and was doing everything in my power to leave, but God was in control of my external circumstances and was having me stay for 24 more hours.

     When I let my family know about the schedule change, my mother reminded me, “A man’s heart plans his way, but the Lord directs his steps,” (Proverbs 16:9). And that is exactly what happened.

     Because my Monday was now completely free, I ended up getting in touch with some acquaintances from a church that I had visited in Atlanta. A family friend of ours attends there, and so the pastor had been wondering if I would be willing to meet and talk about how welcoming his church was. When I let him know that my afternoon had opened up, he admitted that he just happened to have an open schedule, too!

     We found a Starbucks to chat, where I met him and another church-member nearer my age, and we just... really invested in each other. I was able to give them lots of information, advice, and praise about their ministry. They were able to give me lots of encouragement and prayer about my newly-uncertain future. They explained that they were thinking of planting a church to reach out to college students and young adults; I was able to answer their questions about what that demographic may be attracted by. (Church Fact #1: teens are more likely to come back if you have food and comfy chairs. That may sound pretty shallow, but adolescents can be shallow, too.) Near the end, they even asked if I was interested in receiving some discipleship training in the Fall — to which I enthusiastically said yes.

     That discussion was a phenomenally encouraging experience, and it was a great reminder to me of God’s control and plan for my life. I had wanted to get outta dodge before nightfall, but He kept me in Atlanta so that I could have that meeting.

     I had a plan and a path, but God still made sure that my feet fell in specific places along the way. Every time I start to feel discouraged or uneasy, I just “happen” to run across encouraging messages. I get texts from loved ones that mention scriptures like 2 Chronicles 20. I hear different sermons that remind me of my identity in Christ (including one about James 4:13-17, where the pastor even mentioned my old high school back in Texas). Even my devotional yesterday morning was another much-needed reminder:

     “…My brothers and sisters, where is our own faith? It seemed almost a novelty in the church when it was stated long ago that Mr. George Mueller walked by faith in regard to temporal things. To feed children by faith in God was looked upon as the belief of a pious freak. We have come to a pretty pass, have we not, when God is not to be trusted about common things. Abraham walked with God about daily life, but nowadays if you meet with a man who walks with God as to his business, trusts God as to every item ad detail of his domestic affairs, persons look at him with a degree of suspicious wonder. They think he has grace in his heart, but they also suspect that he has a bee in his bonnet, or he would not act in that sort of way. Oh, yes, we have a fancied faith, but when it comes to the stern realities of life, where is our faith?

     “My brethren, why are you so full of worldly care? Why are you so anxious, if you have faith in God? Why do you display in worldly things almost as much distrust as worldly men? Whence this fear? This murmuring? This worry? O my savior, if you were to come, we could not defend ourselves for our wretched mistrust, our foolish apprehension, our want of loving reliance upon you. We do not trust you as you ought to be trusted, and if this be the case among those who are such great debtors to your loving faithfulness, where will you find faith on earth?”

     - Charles Spurgeon

     So at the moment, I’m house-sitting in Atlanta and sending out fresh applications all over the place. I’m also finally starting to plug into some churches, including Passion City where I’ve been accepted to volunteer as a camera assistant once August begins. I still have a place to live, money to pay for it, growing relationships, and encouraging interviews here and there.

     Does that mean I’m going about this faith thing perfectly? No. There are times when I’d like nothing better than to curl up on the couch and watch cable from dawn until dusk in the hopes that ignoring my problems will make them go away. Because staying in Atlanta is a little risky, and there are times when I feel unskilled, and there are moments when the task before me seems simply too big. Sometimes I wonder, if I saw a person like me, would I consider their faith a little too crazy, a little too baseless, a little too dependent on providence?

     But then I remember where I’ve been — more specifically, where God managed to take me against all odds (and oftentimes without the right effort from me). I don’t know what he wants me to be doing — it may not even be professional filmmaking — but I know that if I keep praying then it certainly won’t pass me by when the time comes.

     Yes, without God all of my plans would be utterly baseless and hopeless. There would be no reason to keep trying in the face of every rejected application.

     But there is an Author in control of my life, and I know that he’s going to use this part of my story to shape myself and others as well. I’ve seen Him work too many times for me to give up now.

Two Years Hence

     I actually love sharing the story about my grandfather, because it was the first time I ever lost someone really close to me... and as a screenwriter, I can honestly say that if I hadn't experienced it myself, I might not have believed it; it would be almost too cheesy as a story for anyone to believe. The story is so thick with mention of God because I want to give full testimony to what I witnessed and experienced personally.

     And as I look over this story, I realize I started to get pretty poetic, sentimental, and narrative-like... I guess that's because I remember the emotions still, and hope that perhaps sharing mine might bring you a shade of comfort.

     I was working for a mobile summer camp back in 2013, so I was traveling around the country setting up weekly day-camps with kids. On the Sunday before the week of July 4th started, my mother called to tell me that my grandfather (a WWII veteran) had had a stroke while gardening. She was going to Illinois to see him and her mother; both of her parents had always been incredibly healthy for their age, but they also didn't want to live on life support or be in a nursing home, so my grandfather wasn't going to be on any sort of machine to keep his heart and lungs functioning. It took a whole ton of work from my camp director and others, but we were able to arrange for me to fly out on Friday and skip the last day of camp to see him (or at least the family). I was in a daze of shock, and could focus on little else but finishing work early every day, so that I could prepare to have everything done by Friday. I prayed all week that he would stay alive until I got there... and he did.

     I was taken to the hospital as soon as I got into town; he wasn't too coherent, but my mother and some other extended relatives were there. We talked about him and to him and held his hand... we even sang a couple of hymns and I choked up because of how sweet it all was, singing for a dying man. I've never been one for tears, but I certainly was that weekend.

     As we were leaving, my mother told me that dinner was at the house (the same house that he built as an engineer, 50 years ago, and still lived in) with everybody else.

     Everybody else...

     That was when I remembered... there was a family reunion going on! We'd been planning the reunion for two years, and it just happened to be at that house, on that week, during that summer.

     I'd been in such a daze preparing all week, I'd completely forgotten! So not only were a few close family members and friends there to see my grandfather... everyone was. Second cousins, great-nieces, grand-children even from Alaska, not to mention a few great-grandchildren. In fact, late that night my two little sisters were flown in, too, though they (like me) weren't originally going to attend. By Saturday morning, my grandfather had been farewelled by every single one of his children and grandchildren in person.

     That morning was the big reunion luncheon, with a large tent in the front yard. There were games, of course, including a poll of bets on which grandchild would get married next. Many people spoke about our family history, and nearly all of them made mention of my grandfather and his profound influence on their life. He was the pillar of the family, the trunk of a great tree that had the widest branches of any family I've ever heard of. He was a man of great faith, with a discipline and love that had spread his faith to his children and grandchildren and beyond.

     We sang, too... I even ended up singing an impromptu solo of one song, which I'd only just sung for the first time the night before, in the hospital. I didn't cry that time, though a lot of people did... and later when there was another song sung by everybody, I choked up so much I couldn't even sing.

     The last thing to happen was when my uncle got up to give the benediction. He's my grandfather's only son... and he actually doesn't have any biological children: his two sons are adopted. In fact, they're going to be the only two grandchildren to carry on the family surname... but rather than passing on a bloodline, hopefully they're going to be carrying on a legacy of faith instead.

     When my uncle came up, he was holding a piece of paper, and the garden hoe. He said that no one had bothered to pick up the hoe from where it had fallen in the garden seven days ago... but that it was time to do so now. He read a benediction that my grandfather had actually been writing during the previous week, in preparation... and my uncle mixed it with Bible verses about the patriarch Jacob, who was giving final instructions to his own family before he died. I'm pretty sure that there wasn't a dry eye in the place when he finished by reading:

     "And when Jacob had finished commanding his sons, he drew his feet up into the bed and breathed his last, and was gathered to his people."

     After that, festivities began... desserts, mingling, perhaps a ball game or something, I don't remember really. I was spending most of my time around our grandmother, and went into the house to get a band-aid when she scraped her foot. My father, my uncle, an aunt, and I were in the house when the phone rang. I was right at the desk, though I don't remember whether I was the one to pick it up. We could all hear the nurse on the other side, though. She said my grandfather had passed, sometime within the past twenty minutes or less though they weren't sure exactly. But I think I know exactly when it happened.

     We drifted out of the house, slowly. I passed my mother... I think she saw a hint in my eyes that told her something was amiss, but I let Dad tell her, and saw her face as she curled into his arms for comfort. I was heading for my grandmother, though. My uncle told her, and many of us were waiting to embrace her as he did. She didn't cry too hard -- she was too strong-willed to get emotional in public, I think -- but the hugs were tight. The word spread like a silent wildfire through the crowd of people, and they all came.

     Slowly, without planning or rehearsal, a circle formed in the yard... young and old joined it until we ran around the perimeter of the front property, everyone there with my grandfather's blood in their veins or his imprint left on their life... and we started to sing. It was the Doxology: "Praise God from whom all blessings flow, praise him all creatures here below... praise him above, ye heavenly host... praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Amen."

     It's not a very long song, but it was long enough for me to choke by the end because of how beautiful it all was... like we were singing him to Heaven. Far from feeling like a tragedy, the entire experience struck me as the incredible happy ending to a story that I was privileged to be a part of. There were other incredible moments that were woven into that week, and everyone who was there remembers different key pieces of the patchwork quilt. For example, the very last meal that my grandfather had, a certain type of sandwich, was also the very first meal that my grandmother had ever made for him (and apparently those sandwiches helped spark the idea in his head that he should marry her). The sermon that their pastor had given on the morning of his stroke was about Psalm 23: specifically the verse, "[The LORD] helps me lie down in green pastures." And on it goes.

      The funny thing is, all of those sappy, existential, un-specifically spiritual movies that talk about death suddenly made a tiny bit more sense to me. All of those remarks like, "The ones who love us never really leave us," had always been ignored by me because they felt like a secular world's attempt to feel enlightened... but I suddenly knew there was a grain of truth deep inside it somewhere.

     I've always kept a firm grip on emotions; I know that they can change and interfere with both life decisions and spiritual decisions. Feelings come and go... the lack of them doesn't make something any less real. So yes, I had firmly believed that my grandfather would go to Heaven -- long before that day even came... but I hadn't expected to feel it, too. And I still do feel it. Not as if he's not far away in his house where I'll only see him now and then... but as if he's always around wherever I am, or wherever anyone in our family is: hanging about in the next room with a deck of cards to play spades with, or reading his old Bible. He's young, and not aching or hurting anymore. He's not interacting with the present goings-on, but he's always watching and always smiling.

     I think someone asked me, either on the way to the airport or once I got back to my team of camp counselors, if I felt any peace. I told them I couldn't feel more at peace. Because it doesn't feel like my grandfather's gone. He's much more alive than he ever was in all the years that I knew him.