Multiliners on Moleskine

Lemons

I was holding Esme today in our back yard when I suddenly noticed a few lemons on our lemon tree. The house had a huge lemon tree that had to be razed down during renovation so we planted a new one, right next to the sunroom window, but I had never noticed any fruit. I turned and saw two green orbs hanging low off our young pomelo tree. Surprisingly, all the fruit trees were alive—apricot, guava, apple—not only alive, but looking pretty good. I still thought of them as the scrawny things we first planted, but they were sturdier now, with plenty of green leaves. 

On the East Coast, the sprinkler systems are above-ground, spraying water in a big, rainbow-catching arc across the entire lawn. In the drought climate here, lawns are rare; our watering system like most is underground. A black tube runs around to each plant, seeping just the right amount of water into their roots invisibly every few days. You never see anything happening, but here are these plants, staying green, even growing, in the dry, brown landscape.

And of course I’m thinking, look at us. Look at me. Here we are, living in a place that a year ago seemed so wrenchingly far from home that it left a void that could never be filled. Some kind of seismic shift in self that I couldn’t quite name. At one point I resented it all, even the weather that made me feel like I was stuck in an annoyingly perfect time capsule.

Someone told me once, people here are like ducks. They look relaxed on the surface, like they’re gliding effortlessly where they want to go, but underneath they’re paddling furiously. Their kids are in the best schools in the country, but they’re constantly worried about whether they’re doing the right activities and being raised in line with the most recent studies. Their jobs are elite, but they feel inadequate, like imposters in a high-pressure culture. They live on land that cost millions of dollars, but bear the stress of remodeling or constantly fixing up the old houses sitting on them. They live within access to amazing venues for food and entertainment, but have to deal with constant traffic and insufficient parking to get there. 

So I thought when I got here, I don’t want any of that. I want to be me, and I want to be it authentically. If I’m struggling, I want to share it. If I’m putting my kid in an activity, I’m going to be intentional and open about it. I don’t want scheduling every minute of our lives to be our default. I want to have an open door. 

And I kept trying to catalogue what I felt was inevitable cultural assimilation. But my list boiled down to mostly material things (own joggers, addicted to boba, carries sunscreen). I couldn’t really capture the subterranean part of it. Sometimes, it felt like swimming against the current, heading upstream against all the other ducks paddling furiously the other way, which required a level of intentionality that was both lonely and draining. Other times, it felt like discovering something that made a part of me open up: stimulating conversations, a new kind of grandeur in nature, a kind of thriving I could see in Dave and the kids. 

But today, I looked at the lemon tree and felt surprised. This is what it’s like. I really don’t feel like I’m paddling desperately under the surface. There is instead a kind of sustenance that is as sure as it is invisible. Somewhere along the way, I stopped resenting the differences here. It became just like following the same God I had always followed, who knows and loves me the same way on any coast. And who still provides what I need to draw from each day. I hardly even saw it until Esme dragged me outside to show me a purported black lizard she had spotted and we found lemons instead.

Bloom Where You're Planted

“Thus says the Lord of hosts, the God of Israel, to all the exiles whom I have sent into exile from Jerusalem to Babylon: Build houses and live in them; plant gardens and eat their produce. Take wives and have sons and daughters… multiply there, and do not decrease. But seek the welfare [shalom] of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the Lord on its behalf, for in its welfare you will find your welfare… Do not let your prophets and your diviners who are among you deceive you, and do not listen to the dreams that they dream, for it is a lie… For thus says the Lord: When seventy years are completed for Babylon, I will visit you, and I will fulfill to you my promise and bring you back to this place. For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord…”  - Jeremiah 29: 4-11

I’ve been meditating on Jeremiah 29 this week. The context of the chapter is really the entire story of God’s people in the Old Testament: the choosing, the covenants, the deliverance, the journey to the promised land; the judges, the kings, who eventually stopped following God. The strife that led to a split into north and south; bad king after bad king; repeated sin and idolatry despite prophets’ warnings, which eventually led to God’s judgment as the northern kingdom was conquered by the Assyrians and the southern by the Babylonians. 

This was undoubtedly one of the worst points in the story. The land was lost. The temple plundered. The law long ignored. Judgment had come. Those who were not part of the remnant that stayed found themselves forced into life in a foreign land and culture. I think the majority exilic thinking at the time would have been: we’re not where we’re supposed to be. It was not supposed to be like this. Life will be better when we get out, when things change. And false prophets like Hananiah (Jeremiah 28) were promising that very thing: imminent liberation within two years! You’ll get your lands and your king back!

That’s why Jeremiah’s letter is so radical. Generally the Israelites were warned not to co-mingle with Gentiles in whatever lands they were entering; here they were amongst enemies; and lastly they were hoping to get out soon—but Jeremiah says, build and live. Plant and eat. Marry and have kids. They had been told, you’ll be out in two years—but Jeremiah says, it’s going to be seventy. Most of you will die in this place. They probably thought they were seeing the last of the covenant—but Jeremiah says, the story has not ended. There will be restoration, of relationship and shalom and land, so have hope.

We are so much creatures of circumstance and expectation. It’s so easy to think, “my life will be better when…” It’s so hard to be present when we think things may change. It’s so hard to cope when things don’t turn out like we wanted. Depression, withdrawal, or resentment can creep in. I think about Jeremiah’s strange mix of good and bad news. He was basically saying, look, your current circumstances are going to be worse than you were told. But your ultimate future is going to be far better. He was saying, look, circumstances are secondary to relationship. In your worst place, God visits you. His thoughts are towards you. He hears you. Call on him, come to him, find him with all your inner self, all your understanding and will and feeling. You will have hope, not based on circumstantial manipulation, but that is given to you.

I like Jeremiah’s definition of being present. On the one hand, it’s imminently practical. Build, live, plant, eat. Grow families. You can’t do that without living in community, without engaging daily. On the other hand, it’s imminently spiritual. Don’t seek cultural norms and the dreams of the majority. Be intentional about how you define meaning and success. Seek shalom, wholeness, peace and realize that this only comes from God. Be spiritual engaged in prayer. Don’t lose your worldview. 

It’s ironic that verses eleven-on are so often quoted out of context. Interpreted in our individualistic, circumstantially-focused culture, it’s often read in prosperity-gospel, self-deterministic fashion—when in reality, it’s a promise given in community, and preceded by harsh news. The more I read it, the less it seems about fortune, than about a God who is radically faithful. Who keeps all his promises to us solely because of who he is. Who is completely sovereign. Who reached out to a people crushed by circumstances, through a man who had himself suffered repeatedly for the sake of what he believed, to renew a covenant and hope. The same covenant and hope that we have now.

The Humble Surgeon

Cutting into someone’s body requires a certain amount of braggadocio. Everyone wants their surgeon to be confident. There’s no room for simpering vacillation, even though you know much more than the patient how badly it can go. You have to be willing to live with risk and own whatever happens on the table, whether you directly caused it or not. 

But the reality is, part-time surgeons can’t afford braggadocio. There probably aren’t many of us out there, precisely because we are in the rare position of living with a constant handicap. When you work with your hands, cognition only goes so far: there is a degree of proficiency gained by sheer hands-on experience, and in that I will always fall short. I have heard cataract surgeons say they feel it when they take a two-week break—I take breaks that last twelve months. I might be lucky to do as many cases in a month as full-timers do in a week.

And so I find myself walking in this place of conscious humility. I recognize that my surgeries radically improve my patients’ lives, that complications are still the exception, that it is probably good to maintain skills that I invested so much training in. But I routinely struggle with dread and anxiety when operating days approach, and at times those feelings seem to outweigh the pleasure of operating, or spill too much into my home life.

And of course, surgeons don’t like to talk about their fears of complications. Discussing our fallibility is really not done. Someone once said in residency, having a complication is like losing your virginity—you want to get it over with, but you don’t want to get a reputation for it. 

But what I am learning is that it is possible to walk in this place and allow it to make me a better surgeon and person, rather than let it cripple or paralyze me. It’s hard to describe, even harder to do, but I am grasping it more over the years. 

One aspect of walking well in this place is learning how to handle anxiety. It starts with recognizing it, particularly when it spills out in subtle ways like dreams at night or bad moods at home. I then ask myself whether it is pointing me towards any helpful action, and if not, I pray to choose to let it go. What that actually feels like is choosing to believe in God’s sovereignty. In his sovereign goodness, he uses mistakes to help me learn much more effectively than I would have otherwise—or he uses unideal outcomes to work something more important in my patient’s life—but whether I see the reason or not, the fact remains that ultimately, I can’t control everything. And that is okay because I know the God who does. 

Another aspect is learning to measure my empathy. My mind would enter so much into the imagined sufferings of my patients, sufferings directly caused by me, that I would be unable to sleep. Why couldn’t I have a job where a mistake resulted in, say, an incorrectly made cup of coffee, rather than blindness? But I’ve come to realize there is an empathy that is healthy, that leads to compassion and kindness—and there is an empathy that is unhealthy, that conflates and distorts reality. The reality is, all of my patients are informed of the risks they face. The reality is, other jobs bear just as difficult responsibilities. The reality is, I don’t know what my patients’ sufferings entail—nor am I required to bear it for them without boundary. I try to reign in my imagination and pray for them instead, because God is the only one who does know and see their experiences, and he is fully able to bear them.

Sometimes God surprises me. This week, I was struggling with some subconscious anxiety. The night before my surgeries, something nearly magical happened while I was tucking in the kids. It was as if I could suddenly see how precious each of my children were, in a way that pierced through the haze of routine. Each of the kids were particularly sweet in their own way: Esme in her chubby hug and request to be kissed, Ellie in her open talkativeness, Eric in his slow smile, Elijah in his wriggly enthusiasm. I just felt simply that God was telling me, this is worth it. Whatever happens in your work because of the choices you’ve made, this is worth it. And I slept well that night.

Whenever I think about this, I think about Jacob, who encountered God and left with a limp. A limp, but a name. And I think, well, if being a humble surgeon means I have to live with a stronger sense of purpose for what I do, a consciousness of weakness that keeps me from pride or makes me more willing to listen or learn, a constant reminder of my limitations and God’s character—then maybe it’s not a bad thing. 

O Love That Wilt Not Let Me Go

“My hymn was composed in the manse of Innellan on the evening of the 6th of June, 1882, when I was 40 years of age. I was alone in the manse at that time. It was the night of my sister’s marriage, and the rest of the family were staying overnight in Glasgow. Something happened to me, which was known only to myself, and which caused me the most severe mental suffering.

“The hymn was the fruit of that suffering. It was the quickest bit of work I ever did in my life. I had the impression of having it dictated to me by some inward voice rather than of working it out myself. I am quite sure that the whole work was completed in five minutes, and equally sure that it never received at my hands any retouching or correction. I have no natural gift of rhythm. All the other verses I have ever written are manufactured articles; this came like a dayspring from on high.” – George Matheson

I have a fondness for hymns (which are great for teaching children; I have BSF to thank for that) and their stories. Our church sang the Robbie Seay Band version of O Love That Wilt Not Let Me Go on Black Friday and it became the song that stuck with me through that whole period.

George Matheson was born in 1842 in Glasgow, graduating first in his university class in classics, logic and philosophy. Towards the end of that time he learned he was going blind; his fiancée at the time left him, saying she could not go through life with a blind man. He went on to study for and enter ministry as he had resolved to do, with the help and support of his sister, as by his early twenties he had gone completely blind. In 1866 he became assistant pastor in Innellan, where he wrote several works and became a theologian of some repute.

Matheson wrote this hymn in 1882, on the evening of his sister’s marriage, alone while the rest of the family had gone away. Perhaps he saw the dark years stretching out before him without his companion and helper. Perhaps the wedding reminded him of his own failed engagement. He never did marry, but in 1886 moved to Edinburgh, where he became minister of a church for thirteen years.

O Love that wilt not let me go,

I rest my weary soul in thee;

I give thee back the life I owe,

That in thine ocean depths its flow

May richer, fuller be.

O Light that followest all my way,

I yield my flickering torch to thee;

My heart restores its borrowed ray,

That in thy sunshine’s blaze its day

May brighter, fairer be.

O Joy that seekest me through pain,

I cannot close my heart to thee;

I trace the rainbow through the rain,

And feel the promise is not vain,

That morn shall tearless be.

O Cross that liftest up my head,

I dare not ask to fly from thee;

I lay in dust life’s glory dead,

And from the ground there blossoms red

Life that shall endless be.