Time to Surrender

When life serves you lemons, surrender to Jesus

Tonight at a praise and worship event at our church. During Eucharistic Adoration, I felt prompted to write the following…

So Jesus, I got fired today. I’m throwing myself at your feet because there is nothing else to do. I thought this was the job you wanted me to have, but maybe it was just meant to be for a time, or maybe it was a lesson in humility and obedience. I sure hope it wasn’t a test—because if it was, I failed in both, big time.

In today’s devotional for Hallow’s 33-day Marian Consecration, Sr. Miriam James Heidland read part of The Imitation of Christ by Thomas a Kempis that perfectly fits my situation:

“My son,” says the Lord Jesus Christ, “he who endeavors to withdraw himself from obedience withdraws himself from grace. … If a man doesn’t cheerfully and freely submit himself to his superior, it is a sign that his flesh is not yet perfectly obedient to him. Such a man’s flesh kicks and murmurs against him. Therefore, if you truly desire to overcome yourself and make your flesh obedient to your spirit, learn first to obey your superiors. The outward enemy is sooner overcome if the inner man, the soul, is not feeble and weak. There is no greater or more troublesome enemy to the soul than you, if your flesh is not in harmony with your spirit. You must, therefore, develop a contempt for yourself if you desire to prevail against your flesh and blood. To the same degree you love yourself inordinately, you will fear to resign yourself to another’s will.”

Jesus continues, “Is it so great a matter for a man who is but dust, from nothing, to subject himself to another for God’s sake, when I, the Almighty and the Most High God, who created all things from nothing, humbly subjected myself to man for your sake?”

You see, in my last job, which I held for 20 years, I had the most seniority anyone could have. I was a person who knew things. I just had this way with words (especially the written ones). When I made a suggestion, people listened.

And now, at the ripe age of almost 60 (next month), I’m on a career path that, objectively speaking, shouldn’t be rocket science, in a field that I’ve learned to love… and yet every day I’m faced with the distinct possibility that I’m just not very good at it. There’s nothing more humbling than that.

At the same time, I see how the lack of humility and meekness was at the core of my problems. After many years of being bullied as a child and teenager, in my twenties I worked hard to boost my deflated self-esteem—which made my inner pendulum swing to the other extreme, as in, “I don’t take crap from anyone.”

So when someone attacks me, my first instinct is still to defend myself. I try to remain calm and composed, but there is nothing meek about it. Unfortunately, in a nursing home—as in probably any kind of service setting—you get attacked all the time. Some residents are just naturally nasty and bitter, others suffer from dementia, which excuses them right away… but even the nice ones can turn on you when they have a UTI, or their meds haven’t kicked in, or they simply had a bad night’s sleep.

It’s hardest to show charity in adversity. Oh yes, there are those tender moments with residents, those priceless minutes where you just love them unconditionally and act it too. But if someone is mean and unreasonable, I get defensive instead of letting the ugliness roll off my back. So much for growing a thick skin, Jesus.

This, too, seems to me a form of spiritual pride: Instead of considering insults and humiliation as a special grace, as the Great Saints tell us to do, I frown and put my foot down because “I will not be treated like that.” That was an appropriate response when I had to develop a backbone, but if I want to be a saint, this will not do.

The difference is also that in the Saints with a capital S, the meekness doesn’t come from a lack of self-esteem but from a deep love of you, Jesus, that yearns to share in your Passion. Any humiliation seems like divine nectar to a Saint. Any offense is taken and laid at your feet with a happy heart.

Years ago, I did a meditation in church prompted by Father J. who said we should pack up all our pain and shame and guilt and hand it over to you, Jesus. Following his lead, I stuffed all of my brokenness into a big burlap sack until it looked like it was dripping black tar, and then I gave it to you, Jesus—all of it, and you were not afraid to get your hands dirty. You took it all, the dirt, the slime, and the “shtink,” as Father J. used to say. Please do it again; take it now.

I know I should be depressed about having lost my job today, but I feel strangely content… and so relieved to be near you again. I didn’t realize how much I missed this. It feels like as long as I can come to this sanctuary to be with you, life is going to be good—on a very basic, fundamental level.

One thing I noticed, Jesus, was that you weren’t happy about me working so much recently that I had little time and energy for you left. I couldn’t attend daily Mass anymore, my prayer life was suffering, and I distinctly felt that you were upset when last week, I didn’t make it to Saturday or Sunday Mass because I had to work all weekend. Who knows, perhaps that was the straw that made you say, “Enough.”

My mood is almost elated, expectant, wondering what you might have in store for me next. Whatever it is, Lord, I surrender. Whatever you give me, I believe it will be in my highest and best interest because I know you love me.

Nothing happens in the universe that you don’t allow to happen. In other words, everything is either a lesson or a consequence of my own actions (which is also a lesson) or simply part of your plan for my life. Sometimes I get glimpses, but then suddenly there’s another bend in the road, and I have no idea what lies ahead.

As I’m sitting here in one of the pews writing into my journal, a little miracle occurs right in front of me: First one and then two and then another four children walk up to the altar and start kneeling in front of you, Jesus. Some aren’t older than four or five. Two use the kneelers, the others are on the steps. I don’t think their parents told them to go up front; they just came, drawn by your goodness. They’re quiet and reverent, their eyes riveted on the Blessed Sacrament, as if they intuitively know that there’s a priceless treasure in that monstrance. There’s so much beauty in this display of “childlike faith” that it makes me cry.

The worship band sings “What a Beautiful Name It is.” Yes, indeed, Lord. Death could not hold you… you have no rival, you have no equal… yours is the kingdom, yours is the glory. Another line from a worship song jumps out at me: “Have you come to the end of yourself?”

Yes, Jesus, I’ve come to the end of myself, or at least it feels close. Please come and have your way in me. Take all my brokenness and inadequacy and use it for good. The Bible verse crosses my mind: But now, thus says the LORD, who created you, Jacob, and formed you, Israel: Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name: you are mine.

Yes, Jesus, a thousand times yes.