On My Worst Day

by John Lynch

  Awakening: It’s a mistake to make myself responsible for the choices of anyone else, even my own children.

  This will be the last lie to be exposed.

  Meanwhile, I am asking, “God, are you enough, now?” Some never get the freedom to risk asking it. “The third part of my life I spent trying to convince myself the love I had found was enough.”

  I write this in the middle of my darkest hours …

  Jesus, they say you were tempted in all ways, like other men. I know it’s true. But you can’t have experienced the particulars of my generational distortion and twisted understanding.

  How can you enter in, tonight, with me, into this madness? I know you love me in all of it, that you enter fully into the pain of my suffering and grieving. I know you suffered more than I will ever understand. But can you really relate to the suffering of my failure and regret? Can you know what it feels like to be as torn up as me? How can a sinless God fully empathize with a human who still carries sin?

  So I lie in bed tonight, afraid, alone, feeling unknown. It is irrationally flooding me, all at once; I’ve claimed trusting my identity solves much of this, but it has not been solved in me.

  I am a bluffer who writes books on authenticity. I am sad my kids are at an age where they don’t seem to need me as their pastor and protector. It makes me feel useless—like my best days over. I fear my weakness makes me unattractive to my wife. I’m a controller. I use my fragility to avoid hard issues. I used to think I had the best friends in the world. Where are they now? What do I do that makes them leave? I lie about not wanting to be great. I spiritualize it into “having greater influence.” I believe my issues would be solved if I was famous enough. I hate that I still carry that. I have held up my children as being nearly impervious to hiding. Now I feel foolish. I feel ashamed that my family now has a stigma attached to it. I get angry that I can’t rally myself to again be the playful man of grace. I used to think my understanding of life made me immune to the regret of life others carry. But tonight, regret is all I carry. Tonight, all of my demons are out. I have never felt so alone. Can you stand to be with me in this ugliness, or have I run you off also?

  …Then I remember. And at least for this night, I am safe.

  You became my sin. You drank every moment of it to the dregs. You bore my shame. Not only bore it, you have drawn closer to me, loved me more profoundly, and covered me even more in this mess, than ever before.

  Tonight does not define me. It is real. I will experience it again. But I am never alone in it … Once again, I sigh and whisper out into the dark … how did you find me here?

  … and this:

  “So, the other night as we are drifting off to sleep, I ask, ‘Stacey, do you love me?’ She answers, ‘Yes, I do. More than ever.’ I ask, ‘More than ever? Why?’ She answers, ‘… Because you need me more than ever.’ And in the dark, I smile, sigh and fall fast asleep.”

  2012

  Today I’m flying to Indianapolis. I’m returning four years later to a conference where I had one of the most profound speaking experiences of my life. That weekend, I was on my game and sharp and funny and apparently profound.

  I will speak tonight and tomorrow night. I feel like crap. Whatever I have, it draws me inward and makes me want to be left alone. I’m tentative to talk much, because I can’t get the words out as easily, in the short bursts this anxious constriction is allowing. I sound confused, frail, and less intelligent.

  I’ve mispacked for this conference. I’ve been asked to dress “business casual.” I don’t possess this particular look. I have “casual” and “slovenly” but not business casual. I’ve brought a pair of corduroys, but I now discover they are hopelessly wrinkled. I try them on. I look like I’ve slept in them, several hundred times, on a rock quarry. I try to iron them, but it makes them look worse. Now they look rumpled and starched. I have no choice. I walk out the door, looking like Rip Van Winkle heading out on a blind date.

  Before the main session, I’ve been asked to meet with a group who’ve been going through our book The Cure. I’m not up to this. I can speak to a large group and bluff my way through, but in a small group, answering questions and such, I’m a sitting duck. They’ll see right through me.

  I sigh, take a deep breath and whisper to God, “Help me. I’m all cold and locked up. I don’t want to fail. I don’t want to let these people down. I don’t want to let Truefaced down. I don’t want to let you down. I feel like I’m bluffing to be someone I used to be. I can’t find myself right now. Help.”

  I walk into the room the group has reserved. Fifty or so are seated. I assume they’re waiting for me to say something insightful or wise. I have neither.

  So I start talking, trying to teach something, about something. Until I am stopped, midbluff.

  One of them stands and says these words:

  “John, we have something for you. For you, Bruce, and Bill. For your board, your staff, and anyone else who has ever helped you stand in this gap until this Original Good News found us. Would you give us the opportunity to each tell you how our lives are changed?”

  For the next hour, one by one, they stand up and thank God for us, telling their own personal story of redemption. They are sobbing. Now I’m sobbing. I’m being given the gift of love from people I’d not previously known existed.

  When they finish I stand up. “I did not want to come here tonight. I’m not doing well. I did not have anything much to give you.” I give them a five-minute version of the last year and a half.

  Without a word spoken, they all walk up to me and put their hands on my shoulders. They pray over me. That life-altering experience where you know you’re not going through the motions, but actually believing God is present and powerful, doing something in this very moment. This meeting before this night’s main session is a mightily important turning point for me.

  John, I knew this hard and ugly time was going to hit you. So, I prepared this group to speak for me tonight. I knew you would need it exactly now. Believe every word. I have been doing this through you behind the scenes. I thought tonight you should see a sample of it.

  Don’t think you have been disqualified or diminished because of what has happened this last year. No. This is your moment of validation. You are getting to test out if this way of life in grace holds when the unthinkable gets thought. Millions need to know you still believe it, teach it, and risk living it, even when you are shaky and without full breath.

  Now, you’re about to walk into the main session to speak. You look terrible. Your pants are wrinkled. You have a facial tic thing going. You will struggle to find your words. At several points, you’ll get lost in your notes. … For you have lost a step, or three. Fear not. In such weakness, if you let me, I show up very strong. I’ve got this.

  All right, tie your shoe. I don’t need you falling off the stage. … Be John Lynch. I’ll be God. We work best this way.

  2012

  I’m holding the bread, taking communion this morning. I involuntarily asked myself, “Could I leave this? Could I do without this God, this faith, this life, all that has come to my soul with Jesus?” I’m asking the horribly scary question I might usually avoid, but now desperately needed to know my answer. Quickly, this came back: “Without Jesus, I can’t make sense of anything. Forget heaven for a moment. Nothing today could hold my interest long, nothing could push back the absurdity and stop the emptiness if he is not real and near. Thirty years ago, there were so many other things I could have devoted myself to and fought valiantly for. I now have a life beyond anything I ever imagined. But without Jesus, none of it will hold me. He is the only meaning giving value to every other relationship, and why I’d dare to get out of bed and face the horrible things I know may come to me.”

  So I take the bread and then the cup. I not only have nowhere else to go. I cannot face the rest of this day without his love, his life, his intimate knowledge of me, his risking to carry my name and give me his. I’ll stay in his
love … or I’d perish. Besides, he paid too much. It’s not up for grabs.

  2012

  Today, sitting down to prepare a sermon, I instead find myself writing this:

  John, I know you are not on your game these days. You have not been for some time now. I know you long with all your heart to be on your game. You have begged me to get back to the clarity and strength of your past. I want you to know I probably will not be honoring that request. I do not say this with flippant indifference. This setback has given you a gift greater than you can yet know. You can hear. That’s right. You’re beginning to hear better. The pain, this lonely new longing, this shocking new shift inside you. It is waking up your heart. You are no longer feeling much in control. I hurt with you in the grief of what is no more. But I do not grieve over who you are maturing into. I do not need you to be on your game to have your life count magnificently. You will soon discover this is your most significant hour. I’m right here. I’m not playing you. This is not the result of your failure. By now, you must know better. I have taken the confusing loss this world has fashioned against you and I am turning it into the most significant hour of your life. You called to me the other night in a way we’d never yet shared. It overwhelmed me. Yes, me. Would not the one who is fully love experience the fullest response to love? You are receiving my love these days. You are returning love. It is raw, unvarnished and sputtering. But it is stunningly clear. Don’t be afraid. You are not vanishing. You are not losing your mind. You are not losing your life. You are gaining it. I’m holding you together. This is what love ultimately longs to do. To be allowed to hold another together on this earth. Thank you, my friend.

  2012

  At first I wasn’t sure. But yesterday I’m pretty certain I caught her glance as she was passing by. Noticing my eyes following her, she stopped and turned. We stared at each other, for nearly a minute. Then she smiled, as if in on a story and a series of events only she and I could fully appreciate. “Worry not, my friend. I’m not leaving. I’m circling back around for effect and a dramatic entrance. I’m here now. This current darkness is about to lift.” I asked for her name. She said, “I wanted to be Joy. But it was already taken. My name is Hope.” I involuntarily choked up as I barely got out these words: “I’ve missed you … more than you can know.” She smiled again, kindly speaking directly into my eyes. “I doubt it. … Now, cut the chitchat. I’ve got a dramatic entrance to make.”

  … Thank you Father. Thank You for hearing my complaint, my honest pain and never imagining to hold it against me. Yesterday on the plane was the first time I’ve done that in years. This is all your doing. I almost never complain to you. All along you’ve been waiting for me to get it out. It’s what friends do. I’m sorry I’ve been pretending like I wasn’t disappointed. I was. You knew. You know me perfectly. And you knew it was all part of this particular ride. You are more stunning and real than I have ever known. Please keep renewing my heart. I am worth little to others without my passion and playful hope. Oh, she stopped and talked to me yesterday.

  Hope. You caused that. Thank you, my stunning God. Thank you.

  Love,

  John

  2013

  My wife and I are sitting by the fireplace tonight. We sit out here a lot. Our children are no longer in our home. Carly is studying at Azusa Pacific University. Caleb and Amy both live nearby, here in Phoenix. Caleb and his wife Kali now have two children of their own. We have family dinners every Monday evening on this patio.

  This evening, it’s just us two. And a kale salad. She makes a killer kale salad! Black kale, lots of fresh garlic and lemon. You wish you knew someone who could make this salad.

  Strands of lights hang above us. I am taking in this entire patio. All of it—this entire adobe and cobalt-tiled center, with fireplace, barbecue, and gas lamp—was a surprise and a gift. Ten years ago, some of our best friends, built all this on the weekend we were away for my fiftieth birthday. … It has been the backdrop for so many of our celebrations, graduations and best times with family and friends.

  Forks are scraping plates, while the crackle of cheap alley wood plays in the background. I love this particular combination of sounds.

  I sigh.

  It’s a noticeably different sigh tonight. Wonderfully different than the sighs of the last two years. It is the sigh of contentment. “God. You’ve done it. You’ve been God to this family. You are protecting us. You are redeeming this chaos. We’re still intact.”

  Over this last year, Stacey and I are enjoying our marriage like never before.

  Awakening: When crisis hits long and hard enough, we are all forced to decide whether we will blame each other or more deeply need each other.

  By the absolute grace of God, we have learned to need each other more deeply. Stacey is recuperating from uterine cancer surgery. The cancer turned out to be relatively noninvasive. But there is nothing routine about the time between being told something is very wrong and hearing the diagnosis. And there is nothing noninvasive about the robotic surgery which removed her uterus. But she faced it with such serenity, dignity, and trust in God. It has made her even more attractive and beautiful to my very soul. I’m in such awe of my wife. She has faced so much and yet is more mature, fun, and safe than ever before. She has allowed me to be strong for her.

  She has also learned to allow me to be needy. In the past she has resented anything needy about me. No more. She has embraced my need. She is not afraid of my frailness. She has become my safest place. And something about her protection is making me more confident and strong.

  God saw this coming all along. I have always loved Stacey. But there were times where I wanted to slip off to Burma and sell pamphlets on a street corner. I suspect there have been times where she wanted to club me in my sleep, wrap me up in carpet, tie it off with duct tape, drive me into the desert, and leave me for dead.

  This love, I think, is born of dependence. I’m not sure I have always allowed my heart to need her. I’m not sure I knew how to let her in to protect me. She absolutely altered her life and dreams once she knew I needed her.

  … She glances over at me, noticing my sigh. She can tell it’s different. After twenty-nine years she can tell a change in sighs. It’s quiet for awhile. She is trying to gather the words which have been forming for some time. Sitting together under the same blanket, both of us staring into the fire, she says,

  “You don’t see it, do you? You are the last to see the magic he is accomplishing in you.” “What do you mean?”

  “I love you so much, John Lynch. You don’t see who you are, do you? You don’t see what God’s revealing. You are missing what has been taking place in you. You’ve been all bummed out, like it will always be hard. You can’t see what we all see. So, let me tell you what I see. This last year has revealed you in magnificence, my husband. You are more kind to me. You don’t power up. You don’t make me feel judged. At least not as often. You’re listening to my heart. You’re more tender towards God. I am more at peace because of it. You are less opinionated, with fewer critiques you’ll go to the wall for. God has done all this while you thought you were only holding on. I would never think I’d thank him for this last hurricane season of sadness. But tonight, with all my heart, I am.”

  I sigh again.

  Several weeks from now, during a manuscript-editing meeting, Bruce will say, “I don’t think you’re telling the whole truth near the end of the book. I know a different John Lynch than what you’re describing here. It is showing up all over the place. John, there is now more integration between what you teach and who you are. You are more mature, John. You’re learning to trust his faithfulness on the windy, rocky slope. You no longer demand him to prove himself as good over and over by seeing resolve in every moment. And you also know this is not the last storm which will hit. But you are not nearly so afraid, confident he will be as faithful then as he has been before. You are now becoming that kind of mature.

  “Your messages are more nua
nced with insight. You are safer, kinder. You are wiser. You are not making yourself the issue when you describe a problem you see. We all see it. You are letting us in more. You are not going it alone in your weaknesses.

  “John, you must tell this reality also. Or what good is God on your worst day? For if he doesn’t use that difficult period to increasingly reveal the best John Lynch, then God makes little difference in this life. We should probably instead learn to cover up better. But he has done astounding things.”

  This too is why we need each other. To tell each other the truth we are often the last to see. I wanted this book to be an honest portrayal of real life. But I’m now realizing I haven’t shown you the real truth unless I’m willing to articulate the incomprehensible redemption he is revealing. I guess I didn’t want to write a happy-ending book, because not everyone’s endings are clearly revealed as happy. But to miss this redemption would be to miss what God is doing in all of our stories. He will not waste pain. He will not waste suffering or hardship. He does the miraculous in us, in the midst and through such sections of our lives. This is actually what this book is all about!

  Awakening: It’s not only how God sees me on my worst day, but what he does in me through my worst day that reveals the true nature of Christ in me.

  … It has happened. It is happening this evening. It will mark me for the rest of this ride. “This fourth part of my life I am actually beginning to experience the life love has given me.”

  2013

  (Forgive me. I am list writer. I could not adequately express, only in story, what God taught me in my period of great darkness … my worst day. All of these, I imagine, could be considered “awakenings.” Thank you for indulging me.)