How to Juggle

We had been in America for three whole days when I asked my four-year-old at the breakfast table if she was missing home in the Himalayas. She popped raspberries and sausages into her mouth carelessly, her skinned legs penduluming back and forth contentedly. 

“Nope. I like America better.” Was her decisive reply. I grinned. It was definitely the maple-flavored pork and berries speaking. 

“What about you, Mom?” She asked back, her eyes steely blue. 

“I like both places.” I said, as I stirred cream in my coffee.

“No, you have to choose,” She surprised me by answering.

We were fresh from a vegetarian world with limited produce and I was liking this sausage, too. I thought about how all of my conversations of late kept returning to food- the convenience of it, the amount of it, and the protein effortlessly present in every meal. In America, I didn’t have to be a devotee of dishes and vegetable preparation to stay well-fed. I silently agreed with her choice of winner in what seemed a pathetic competition.  

America has its charms. And I’m not sure what to do with them. I cannot juggle balls or these splendid gifts. Gifts of blending in in public, receiving loving help from grandparents, worship songs in my own language, flat roads with rules, clean playgrounds, and a culture that doesn’t shame me for the parade of kids hanging onto my kurta. Instead of a posture of thankfulness and moderation, I am half-afraid to indulge and freely enjoy these present presents from the Lord, while the other half of me desires to consume them like a vulture, a carcass. Somedays I resist these gifts like a martyr and enjoy the fleeting pleasures of the stoic, while other days I greedily hoard all I can while I can. Like a juice box squeezed too hard, too soon, my hands are sticky. How can I in good conscience enjoy life’s luxuries without distorting them and myself in turn? Like an obedient follower of babysitter Aaron while Moses was away, I too often offer the gold from my wrist to the pot to make shiny calves. I am starting to feel their lack of breath and power. Their shine is fading. 

Perhaps that is why the Lord planned for me to skim the book entitled Lessons from a Hospital Bed, by John Piper. The chapter concerning his wariness of the television’s place front and center in the hospital room has lodged in my brain like a trusty rubber doorstop. While seemingly a bizarre chapter to fixate on in my stage of life, I felt the gravity of his warning. His hesitation to binge in such a season isn’t primarily because of the violence and sexual content on Netflix. Rather, he warns against the shrunken, dismal view of reality it presents without us even noticing. Our bodies and all of nature are brimming with a glory that is diminished to a dusty trinket we can hold in our hands. Reality is slurred and eternal truths which ought to electrify us are exchanged for something lighter, something more entertaining. 

While television tells us beauty and health are our birthright and success a guarantee if we’re a good person, the hospital bed reminds us we are made of dust. A bed pan and permanent IV make the idea of satisfaction in a dream career and sexual freedom less believable. Even in the warmest and fuzziest of shows, where family is highlighted as supreme, isn’t it disheartening that at the fullest, most peaceful dinner table there is still a hint of discontent? We know deep down that this isn’t it, even if this is really good. In turning off the television, or turning off whatever else sells us cheap replicas of reality, we will see the mystery of God’s world and the magnificence of his image in our neighbor. If The Price is Right is on, we may miss the sight of the Christian’s potential to persevere and the rising fireball in the east whose rays tell of God’s mercy towards the wicked, as well as the righteous. What sitcom can compete with the splendor of the sufferer who continues to move his lips in prayer and his hands in worship? 

I miss a lot of things. I have a bent to binge. I’ve nearly thrown fits when my self-controlled husband stops a suspenseful series too soon. However, this last Sunday, my eyes were wide open. Standing in the balcony at church, I watched the saints below me and at my side worship a God who had taken precious things from their embrace- babies in the womb, children, spouses, beloved careers, health, longed for dreams. Yet there they stood, stripped of gifts, but happy as only born-again creatures can be happy. Empty-handed, but full-hearted. Having lost the best of what the world offers in order to gain the storeroom of Heaven. I’m so glad I didn’t miss this sight. Like the vision of heavenly chariots given to Elisha’s servant for his courage and faith, this army of suffering saints equips my hands for war and my feet for his service. 

I can enjoy the gift because it’s not the end of the story. The climax is not the breakfast sausages my four-year-old throws in her mouth like a brawny logger. The treasure is on the other side of the eyelids of those worshipers I witnessed yesterday. The one who hung the stars can safely handle our myriad of loves. Littler loves safe and snug inside the best love. No need to juggle.