Guts and Glory

“[The] chief part of human happiness arises from the consciousness of being beloved.” –Adam Smith

Life is strange. Lately it’s had an odd consistency, like a rawhide toughness I knaw through one day at a time. The questions I once pondered with ease--what’s God been trying to show me recently? what’s the purpose of this time?--I now stare at in the befuddled stupor of one simply trying to survive. I wonder if I’m being initiated by sudden immersion into the drab world of work for work’s sake. I wonder if my spare time has fallen prey to brainless entertainment and consumerism. I wonder if I’ve forgotten the something that made me ask those questions--perhaps that more than anything else creates this sensation of wandering in underwater heaviness.

I wonder if surgery is changing me. I’ve whipped out one-handed knots with my eyes closed, put in chest tubes; I’ve seen enough inguinal hernias (and a variety of male genitals) to last me for life. But I’ve become accustomed to a world that’s exacting, hierarchical, that pivots on task-geared efficiency. I’ve worn to bone-deep weariness, perhaps so much that I haven’t noticed becoming habituated to a world that doesn’t acknowledge God’s existence. That doesn’t credit physical marvels to His creative power, that constantly tries to discharge patients and faces work with grumbling. That counts on luck for good call nights rather than trust in His sovereignty. That showcases humors and moods rather than the assured peacefulness of one who is beloved.

At the end of the day, that’s what I crave. I crave being given a sense of belovedness rather than having to create it myself, through reckless self-preservation, relationships, consumerism, performance. When I have it, I carry into the hospital a sense of favor that nothing can take away. When I don’t, life acquires the gristly dreariness that wears at my day and leaves me empty at night.

I have to work at creating a world that acknowledges God, that cries out with wonder at His creation and glories with Christ in suffering, that trusts there is some purpose even when I see none. That listens. That gives thanks. That doesn’t live in fear of making mistakes or never catching up on sleep. Sometimes I just have to rest in unconditional belovedness and not try at all. Tomorrow’s my last day of surgery for this rotation. Good time to rest.

Written August 20, 2006