I have spent much time conditioning myself that the Lord is good, regardless of circumstance. This discipline was strengthened in me when things were going poorly. Now that things are going well, I still feel the same way. Unfortunately, I am now struggling against the mentality that God is outside of circumstances. I want to praise him for the good things in my life, but I am afraid that God will take enjoyable things from me if I acknowledge that I am indeed enjoying the current circumstances.

I know academically that God is good, and I know from grueling experience that he is good in the hard times. I’m learning to trust that God is good in the good times, too. It’s much harder than I expected; God has been a taker, so that I rely on him. And now I do!

But now I don’t know how to fully enjoy good things without fear that I am idolizing them above God. I want to live rightly, which is good. But why do I want to live rightly? For love of God, or for love of being right?

Oh, the legalism seeps through the cracks even now. And, as with all sin, it threatens to crush out the joy of the good things God intends for us. There have been many words spilled on enjoying God vs. enjoying the things God has given us with a recognition that God gave us those things.

I’m still working on what that looks like for me. But I really want to know God, and I really want to enjoy the things he has given. I truly hope these are not mutually exclusive.

I’ve been waking up sad the last few days. This surprised me, because for the first time in five years, I have what I’ve worked for. I have a wonderful girlfriend, a job I enjoy, guys to play music with, places to write, a church family and even snow on the ground. What else could I want?

And yet, I still have had a heaviness upon me in the mornings. In wrestling over the cause of this, I’ve realized that the way I view God has to change. Previously I saw God as a picture frame in which I lived my life; he is the parameters in which I live. But that’s not enough. When I have all that I want, and yet there is still a void, something must be addressed.

I am no longer able to have God as parameters. I need God as a storyline, weaving through my entire existence. I want know Him as an active God, not a passive one. I don’t know what that means, really; for this to work, God will have to drastically change how I view him. That’s good; this will further break down my love of legalism.

It is clear that the God who sets down rules is not all of God; it is not the part that fulfills my heart’s desire for closeness. The part of God that knows me and wants to be known is the part I need to find now.

I am not discontented with things in my life; on the contrary, I love my life right now. But it’s not enough. It could never be enough. God has ensured that. If we were able to be fully content here, why would we look to the heavens? And I am not able to be fully content here; it’s only now that I realize what all this “content yourself in the Lord” business means.

This is not an airtight essay, like I usually try to construct. There are holes and missing parts all over. A skeptic would not have to try hard to rip this apart. Perhaps that’s the point; I’ve been so airtight with my life that it’s sterilized the way I view God. I have made him in the image of rules; that’s not God. I want to know the real, living God.

I wonder if I will still wake up sad tomorrow. These changes move slowly. I don’t really know.

I started this project to make sure that I thought about the Gospel at least once a day during a period when I didn’t want to think about it at all. Now that I’m out of the heavy trials, I decided to scale back to three days a week. “The quality will improve,” I thought to myself.

I was wrong. It just means I think about the Gospel less. Clearly, my change in frequency has been a poor decision. I over-estimated my spiritual maturity; I thought I would just be able to keep thinking about the Gospel on my own. Not true, apparently; it seems I still need outside help to keep on the right path.

Oh, wait. That is the Gospel.

I do not understand what I’m supposed to do with memory. The snarky response, of course, is, “Remember things.” This would be all well and good, if I knew what to remember and what to forget.

I went through old pictures today, as I am setting up a Flickr account. I want to get back into photography after a bit of a hiatus, and reminding myself what I’m capable of is a good start. The process, however, was a complicated one. I found good things that I never want to forget in the albums; I remembered things that I had already put out of my mind.

What am I supposed to remember?

One is a book of bad pictures from a very happy trip to DC; do I keep those? The pictures suck, after all; they’re all blurry, fuzzed-out and unfocused. But they evoke a sort of dream state, as I can’t remember those specific moments except through the feelings I associate with it and (as of an hour ago) those hazy, exuberant pictures. I like it.

Far more difficult is the set of pictures I found next. The album is from a happy time, but later the subjects would have very unhappy times that now cast a pall over the photos. The photos are good; I would like to show them off. But I would rather not have to think about anything related to the situation that followed; I’d rather forget it. Am I allowed to forget things that I want to forget? Can I delete the pictures and go on with my life?

Is it important to remember bad things, even years later? Even when there is nothing else to be learned? Is there ever a stopping point on learning? How about when the situation is in stasis, as healed as it can reasonably be, and yet it hurts because the troubles were so painful that even the memory sets off pangs of guilt, sadness and struggle?

Is remembering part of healing? Or is forgetting part of it?

I tend to advise people that forgetting is not part of healing. We can’t just stow the recent unpleasantness and imagine that it will simply evaporate. These things need to be dealt with. But what constitutes “dealt with”? When is it done? When can I rewrite that part of my brain with something else?

It’s not reasonable to assume that the problematic past will walk hand in hand with us each day. I have a busy life, and I’d prefer to keep bringing victory in, as the Avett Brothers would say. Or should I? Would that numb me to the presence of the ill? Is that healing? Is the fact that I don’t think about it anymore unless I’m looking at old pictures a numbness of its own?

I only care about these answers because I want to heal. Not just be happy, but be healed. I guess this needs an operational definition too. Full healing, I suppose, is the transformation of our bodies in heaven and the removal of our sinful thorn. There will be no black mark then; we will be whole. And I want this, before heaven.

It is not possible to achieve on this mortal coil; I can’t be perfect, which I would need to be if I wanted total wholeness and healing. I will always be broken. Does that mean that there are some things I will never be free from? I don’t know. I believe in the complete power of Christ to control the world; I believe in the fallen nature of man. That struggle, whether in the world or in my soul, is the difference between healing and perpetual dismay. I must submit myself to Christ to be healed; many days I just don’t want to.

Are we allowed to forget? I still have no clue. But I know that we can be whole again, when we allow Christ to work in us. Some days (today!), I have no idea what that work accomplishes. But I know that he is doing a work in me here on earth, and he will complete it when I die.

I will be healed.