You Ungrateful Turd
Some years ago I read the book The Ragamuffin Gospel by Brennan Manning. I liked the book a great deal because it was filled with plausibility; it was a discourse on a Gospel worthy of belief.
I remember marking the book up with the letter “Q” in many places, it’s my way of designating that something said is worthy of quoting at some point and time in my life. The “Q” is one of those statements that will anchor itself in my memory, to be resuscitated at a divinely appointed time; it may be days, months or even years before life necessitates its excavation from my mind.
This past weekend I was on a spiritual retreat when one of the Qs crashed into my memory like a ’64 Ford in a county fair demolition derby.
For three days I gathered with forty or so men in tables of 5 or 6 and took a spiritual journey that caused us to bond in ways that won’t soon be broken. Two days into the retreat the five guys I sat with spent time praying together in an alcove of the church the retreat took place in. The alcove was at one time a main entrance to the church but over time and the addition of buildings the place was just a remote spot where the faithful once strode.
I recalled something Brennan Manning had written while we were praying. In The Ragamuffin Gospel he wrote this…
“Have I so insulated myself in a fortified city of rationalizations that I cannot see that I may not be as different from the self-righteous as I would like to think? The following scenario plays in my imagination:
A humble woman seeks me out because of my vaunted reputation as a spiritual guide. She is simple and direct:
“Please teach me how to pray.”
Tersely, I inquire, “Tell me about your prayer life.”
She lowers her eyes and says contritely, “There’s not much to tell. I say grace before meals.”
Haughtily, I reply, “You say grace before meals! Isn’t that nice, Madam. I say grace upon waking and before retiring, and grace again before reading the newspaper and turning on the television. I say grace before ambulating and meditating, before the theater and the opera, before jogging, swimming, biking, dining, lecturing, and writing. I even say grace before I say grace.”
That night, soggy with self-approval, I go before the Lord. And He whispers, “You ungrateful turd. Even the desire to say grace is itself My gift.””
What conjured up the memory of this part of The Ragamuffin Gospel was the story one of the guys I was with began to tell us about his daughter, Morgan.
Morgan was born with a tumor attached to her brain stem.
Throughout her fourteen years of life Morgan has endured nearly a half dozen surgeries, rounds of chemotherapy and radiation. I listened as my friend explained that the most recent round of radiation didn’t work; it didn’t reduce the tumor. At fourteen, Morgan is soon to face another surgery.
Morgan’s tumor can’t be removed because it is attached to the brain stem, and because of that the doctors can only remove pieces of it and hope that through chemo and radiation the tumor can be reduced enough to allow her to continue to live. A few years ago Morgan’s parents were told that at best she only had two years to live.
My friend mentioned that there are some new drugs on the horizon that may one day completely eradicate Morgan’s tumor.
Morgan’s dad spoke of her bravery, her zest for life and the great encouragement she is to him. She is teaching her dad how to really live through her own illness.
“You ungrateful turd,” kept playing through my mind
“You ungrateful turd!”
Over the past five years I’ve been on a journey with my youngest son, who is twenty. It’s been painful at times, it’s been frustrating at times, and it’s been embarrassing, hurtful and even seemed hopeless at times. But it’s never been anything like Morgan and her dad have experienced.
“You ungrateful turd; what do you really have to complain about?” reverberated off the walls of my mind in that alcove of that church.
My son doesn’t have a tumor on his brain stem, never has. He’s been healthy most of his life, except for a scare we had when he was one year old and was diagnosed with Kawasaki Syndrome. I remember standing beside his crib in Nationwide’s Children’s Hospital the night he received a blood transfusion. I felt that night what Morgan’s dad must feel every night—every night for fourteen years.
So, I sit here and wonder, is my life filled with plausibility of a Gospel worthy of belief? Can I trust God with my son, as Morgan’s dad trusts God with his daughter? Do I believe that God loves me, and loves my son, and loves Morgan’s dad, and loves Morgan, even though at times it doesn’t seem like he does.
I was again reminded that God’s grace shows up in ways we don’t often expect and often don’t realize.
